


I Love This Wine, But It Needs to Breathe

by Blackbird Song (Blackbird_Song)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Minor Violence, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2051139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackbird_Song/pseuds/Blackbird%20Song
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sensory deprivation changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Love This Wine, But It Needs to Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hurinhouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurinhouse/gifts).



> **Author's Note** : Written for the [](http://wcpairings.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://wcpairings.livejournal.com/)**wcpairings** challenge of 2013. 
> 
> Many thanks to my husband for the beta.

 

It's dark.

This is how he'd imagined prison when he was little. Dark, dank, moldy – like a dungeon in one of those old movies, only worse. More like the ones in his childhood nightmares.

And it's been his home for the past ... he thinks maybe two weeks. He's tried to count every crack of light, like Mozzie taught him, but he's lost track. The stuff they're injecting isn't helping things, either.

He can't identify them. He's given up trying. There's no speaking. He's given up talking, and they've never spoken to him. They haven't demanded anything except his compliance, and that, they've obtained through drugs, restraints and exactly enough force to capture and keep him confined.

They dress in black, head to toe in loose-fitting, cotton pull-on knits. He can smell the faint detergent and fabric softener – common brands, different families, very good at confusing a nose less practiced than his. That's another trick he owes to Mozzie. The brands they use on his jumpsuits are different.

There are three of them. They're all close to his height – about six feet. They all wear Old Spice, but one of them smells consistently different in it. He's pretty sure this one is female.

He tests the anklet – no, it's not the anklet. It's a shackle. It's scary that he has to remind himself of that. It's also scary that he wishes like hell that it were the anklet. But that way, Peter would find him. And the anklet doesn't come with a thick chain attached.

It's at times like this, when he's totally alone in a nest of bad guys, that he realizes how vulnerable he is without Mozzie, Peter, El, June, Sara ... even Diana or Jones would be welcome, right about now.

For a kidnapping, this is all very civilized and controlled. And this is why Neal is more terrified than he has ever been in his life. These are the sorts of people who know exactly how to kill and leave no trace, if they want or need to, and he has no idea if they want or need to kill him.

He worked out a few days ago – and he can really only keep track of time by the faint hum that he thinks is traffic noise seeping in through thick, stone walls – that they wouldn't be poisoning him with thallium, because that could be messy. They clean meticulously, and they give him food that is efficient and unlikely to cause a mess. They're also very quick about cleaning, and they have a dishwasher. He can smell the faint remnants of the detergent and the finishing agent on the pristine glassware in which they serve his food.

They'd taken him outside the office. He still doesn't have any idea why. All he knows is that Peter and El were still on vacation, and that they are – by El's order – completely out of touch with the rest of the world.

> _"To Neal," said Mozzie, raising his glass. "Congratulations on being an anklet-free man!"_
> 
> _"To Neal," said everyone else, except Jones and Diana, who simply raised their glasses with a 'yeah, right' look and took a perfunctory sip._
> 
> _Sara put down her glass and picked up a little box wrapped in nicely thick, black paper and adorned with a gray satin bow and a miniature card._
> 
> _"Nice gift tag," said Neal._
> 
> _"It's not private," she said, with a wink._
> 
> _Neal smiled and nodded, tongue heading toward cheek as he opened the tiny envelope. "For when you feel something's missing," he read, knowing what he'd find when he opened the box. "Pink?" he said, holding the ankle bangle up._
> 
> _"I don't believe in stereotypes," said Sara, with a huge grin._
> 
> _"Here," said Mozzie, thrusting a plain, white box at Neal. "Try this."_
> 
> _Neal rolled his eyes and opened the box. "A mini-fanny pack ... how cute!" He twirled it around his finger._
> 
> _"It's a key safe," said Mozzie. "And it's reversible. Black on one side, and your flesh color on the other. I had it perfectly matched!"_
> 
> _"Thank you, Mozz. I'll use it when I go undercover."_
> 
> _"Or when you have to flee from the Suit, again."_
> 
> _Peter sighed. "Well, you might as well open mine."_
> 
> _Neal took a suspiciously sized box wrapped in white paper with a black bow from Peter's hand. "Et tu, Peter?" He opened it up and nodded, holding up the contents of the box. "Aww, a white collar! Well, at least I can wear this to some of the more avant-garde gallery openings I have to go to."_
> 
> _Peter smiled at him and raised his glass, winking. The twinkle in those eyes would drive Neal mad for the rest of his life, but not quite as much as watching the wine slipping under that strong, sharp cupid's bow, or imagining its path down that long, beautiful throat...._
> 
> _Neal blinked himself out of it and shook his head. "Remind me to get you an orange tie."_
> 
> _"Too late," said El._
> 
> _Neal's eyes widened. "You—"_
> 
> _"Gave it to me the second I got out of the slammer," said Peter._
> 
> _"And you didn't tell me?" He looked from one to the other of them. "Neither of you?"_
> 
> _"Well, Peter told me he wanted it kept a secret, so...."_
> 
> _"Spousal privilege," said Peter, kissing El._
> 
> _"Mmm...." El broke the kiss and pulled a wrapped bottle from the sideboard. "This one's from me, Neal. Not as creative as the others, but ... well, just open it."_
> 
> _Neal did, and found an Argentinian malbec that he loves – peppery and hit-over-the-head tannic out of the bottle, but soft and deep after it's breathed, with a buttery mouthfeel that soothes away the initial astringency. But ... "Awww, Elizabeth, you shouldn't have!" He held the bottle aloft, revealing a perfect miniature of his anklet resting on the shoulder._
> 
> _"To Elizabeth," said Diana, lifting her glass._
> 
> _"Hey, Caffrey!"_
> 
> _Neal turned toward Jones._
> 
> _"Smile!" Jones snapped the picture on the 'i'._
> 
> _Neal gave a slightly wan smile. "That better not be over my desk in the morning...."_
> 
> _"Nah, I wouldn't do that...."_
> 
> _"But I would," said Diana._
> 
> _"Yeah," said Jones with a grin that lit up his face like nothing Neal had seen on him._
> 
> _"How about anyone who wants one gets to put it on his or her desk, such that it faces away from public view and does not obscure anyone's field of vision," said Peter, pointedly._
> 
> _"In a regulation eight by ten frame," added Mozzie._
> 
> _The whole room went silent._
> 
> _"Regulations can, sometimes, be appropriate," said Mozzie, eying the room for threat potential._
> 
> _There was a general murmur of, "Yes, of course, definitely...."_
> 
> _Neal shook his head, but couldn't help smiling in that choking up sort of way. When he could compose himself, he looked up and said, "Thank you. You've all gone to bat for me, even when you didn't trust me – even though maybe you still don't trust me – and it made a difference. Thanks." He raised his glass to all of them and drank, because he couldn't talk anymore._
> 
> _It was worth it to see Diana blink._
> 
> _Neal didn't notice Peter beside him until that long arm plopped down on his shoulders, hand squeezing a little like a Vulcan neck pinch before patting him a little harder than necessary. He didn't have to look to know that Peter's eyes were maybe a bit suspiciously bright._
> 
> _"You've earned your freedom, Neal. And I'm glad you decided to accept a permanent position on the White Collar team. You've earned that, too." This last was said conversationally, but nobody needed any further reminder that Peter considered the matter closed._

Neal had planned to open the malbec the next night, after he got home from his first day as a non-shackled member of the team. He'd thought it would be a pleasant reminder of Peter and Elizabeth while they were gone – like a way of connecting with them without spoiling their first vacation together in years. He always misses them when he's been ripped from them. Peter, especially.

For years, he thought it was a father thing, so he suppressed his feelings of attraction. But all that was pushed aside when his actual father turned up. And even now, even in this place that's so dark it's almost a sensory deprivation chamber, he can't think of Peter that way anymore, no matter how much he wants to, because he's still trying to figure out how he's going to tell Peter how he really feels about him – except that he doesn't want to hurt El, because she's maybe the most perfect human being he's ever met. Not only does she remember his tastes in wine, she understands and anticipates them. And this while she's married to Peter, the king of crap food.

Argentinian malbec: 'Peppery and hit-you-over-the-head tannic' before it has a chance to breathe – that's not at all unlike Peter.

Neal feels his eyes widen. Now he's hallucinating, because there's no way that El is trying to tell him that she's giving permission to—

Wine.

He'd smelled it in the last second before he was grabbed from behind outside the office. And not just any wine. Mouton 45. He'd tasted it once – the real thing – in Paris. It was the first time he'd had a sexual encounter with another man, and the wine was the best part. Not that the guy was bad, or the sex. But the wine! The eucalyptus and ginger that everyone talked about was real, but what struck him was how utterly mysterious it was to look at. And 1945....

Neal's lived his life steeped in history and art, in all its forms. It's been his family, his making, his world. But there has never been anything in his life like drinking a glass of wine made in 1945. And that that wine became one of the greatest wines ever to be made, and that he drank some of it, and it's still so richly layered and _alive_ is a resonance that still makes him tremble.

And his kidnappers smell of it.

Everything slams together. He needs to get out, to get to Peter – no, to the office, because Peter's on vacation – and tell them where to find the smuggling ring they'd given up hunting right before Peter was exonerated. He's furious with everyone – including himself – for letting that happen. It would have been a great coup for Peter and the team, as well as himself, and maybe several friends of Mozzie's would still be free if they'd persisted and nailed the bastards. And he wouldn't be here, seeing frames of his kidnapping pass before his eyes, or knowing insanely that he saw the face of the woman who chloroformed him, or hearing Peter's ghostly voice yelling, "FBI! Drop your weapons!" from a million miles away.

The light assaults him. He thinks he screams.

There are fingers on him. Bodies too close. Voices too loud, even through his hands clasped tightly to his ears. He shouts at them to shut up. His voice is drowned out by the noise.

Then there's a voice – one he loves, except it's so loud and totally impossible. "Quiet, everyone," it yells. Except it doesn't sound like a yell, exactly. It's more like a horribly loud version of Peter's voice. Which is impossible, because Peter's on vacation and doesn't know he's here. "And somebody turn off the light," not-Peter adds.

There's an ear-shattering click, and Neal is desperately relieved not to be seeing his blood vessels and bones through his tightly closed eyelids.

"Neal, it's Peter." The voice is too loud, but it's quieted some, and it's starting to come into focus. And the smell....

"Peter?" Neal's voice sounds like it did when he was shouting at them to shut up, and the world turns sideways. "Guess I haven't talked for awhile...."

"You've been gone for three weeks, four days and seventeen hours."

"Wow." Neal coughs and tries to swallow the roughness away. It hurts his ears more than his throat. "Why are you shouting?"

"I'm not. You're suffering from hypersensitivity to stimuli as a result of sensory deprivation. I'm speaking as quietly as I can without whispering."

"Try whispering."

"How's this?"

Neal groans. "Never, ever take up a career in acting!"

Peter chuckles, and it's the best thing Neal's ever heard. "Wouldn't dream of it. Mind if I sit down?"

"Yeah, actually. It might make me seasick."

"Oh. Okay, that wouldn't be good. Look, I'm going to go supervise. The light's still off in this room, but it's on in the stairwell. I'll leave the door slightly ajar. Can you walk?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

There's a pause, and Neal knows that Peter is biting his tongue and trying to figure out what's best. "Okay, but if you're not upstairs in half an hour, tops, I'm sending in the medics."

"Gotcha."

*****

It took Neal a day to recover most of his physical equilibrium. The nightmares will take longer. He hates bringing that stuff home, so he's staying out later than normal. Not that 'normal' is a concept he can ever embrace in good conscience. Eight days after his rescue, he's walking home with neither escort nor anklet for the sixth time since he was officially emancipated. It's a beautiful night in a safe neighborhood, and he values it, but he still cultivates his hearing and sense of smell in the hopes of never being knocked out again.

He is so relieved to get home that he starts laughing. And when he sees that malbec on the table, he decides to have some. He's just finished opening it when there's a knock on the door. He's about to yell, "Come in," when he remembers that he's locking it, now.

It's Peter, which makes him a little too glad. "Hey, come in!"

And then he's engulfed in Peter's embrace.

"Long time, no see," Neal says, thumping Peter on the back so he doesn't have to feel quite so guilty about enjoying this quite so much.

"When can you come back to work?"

They're still hanging on to each other. "Tomorrow, according to the doctor. Why, is there something going on now?"

Peter laughs, squeezes Neal a little tighter and lets go. "No, nothing like that. I just...."

"Wanted to see me?" Neal hopes he didn't sound as hopeful as he knows he did.

"Yeah." Peter gazes at Neal for a moment. Then he spots the wine. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah, sure! Want some wine? I just opened it, so it has to breathe—"

"That's the stuff El gave you, right?"

"What gave it away, the mini-tracking anklet?"

"Yeah!" Peter's laugh is a little too enthusiastic.

"What's wrong?" Neal retreats enough to get another wine glass, which he holds up with a pointed look at Peter.

"Sure." Only Peter doesn't sound sure, at all.

"It's a very good vintage and maker," says Neal. "But unless you want your face taken off from the inside, it needs to breathe for at least fifteen minutes."

"That's okay, I've got time," says Peter, immediately.

"And you know it's midnight, right?"

"Yup. Got all night."

Neal nearly drops the glass. "Please tell me you and Elizabeth are—"

"We're fine," Peter says, a genuine smile on his face, even though he's laughing and breathing too quickly. "We're really ... beyond fine." Peter wipes his palms on his suit pants.

"Okay, so why are you freaking out?"

"I'm not freaking—okay, maybe I am, a little." Peter's jaw is compressed more than it ever is, except when he's been betrayed.

Neal shoots him a look.

"Okay, maybe a lot." Peter sits down. It's graceful and deliberate, totally controlled, and yet it looks like he just fell into Neal's kitchen chair.

Neal takes his time to pour the wine correctly while he figures out whether to sit near Peter or stay far away.

"El told me something about that wine," Peter says, as Neal finishes the pour.

Neal puts the glasses in their appropriate places and then opts for the chair closest to Peter's, but keeps his arms in front of him to maintain a respectful, safe distance. "Oh?"

"Yeah. And she said you'd know what that story is."

"Oh. Well, if you mean that it has a similar character to you, then yeah, she's right."

Peter smiles, slightly, as though he's trying not to. "You're making me wonder if I should drink it," he says, unable to stop the grin from forming.

"It's a good wine, Peter. It's really peppery when you first pour it, and the tannin kind of knocks you out, but if you let it breathe, it mellows out, and you get all these different notes all blended together. It's really comforting at the same time that it never lets you forget a single thing about it. I love this wine."

Peter has relaxed a little, but he looks down for a long time. "El is visiting her folks for a couple of days. She said that whatever you and I might want to do is fine, as long as nobody gets hurt." He looks up. "I don't think she was just talking about getting shot."

Neal lets his hand fall near Peter's. "When I was down there, in that basement, all I could think of was how I missed you and Elizabeth – you, really – and how if I still had the anklet, you could find me."

Peter snorts. "That thing got cut so many times, they're looking into submitting the records to Guinness!"

Neal laughs. "Are you serious?"

"Yup."

"Well, then, I want to see who my competition is!"

Peter laughs. And then he doesn't. "Look, Neal, I ... you know I love you, right?"

"It's nice to hear you say it," says Neal, when he can. And then he realizes how it sounded. "But don't worry. I'm not going to ask for declarations, or anything. Besides, you're married to the best person on the planet!"

A weight lifts from Peter, and his smile is transcendent. "I am a very lucky man."

"You know it! And you'd better keep knowing it, or Mozzie, Jones, Diana, Satchmo and I will make sure you never hear the end of it! And by the way, I love you, too."

There is nothing more beautiful to Neal than Peter Burke being spontaneous, even when that spontaneity results in awkward kissing, clumsy enthusiasm and a glass of really lovely malbec – make that two glasses – falling over before they make it to the bedroom.

As they tumble into bed, mostly naked, Neal makes a note to find a legal way to get Elizabeth a bottle of Château Mouton Rothschild 1945, even if it costs him every cent he'll ever have and takes him forty years to do it.


End file.
